The Gray Area
by raspbewwies
Summary: "It's a gray area. It's the area of the survivors, who float half dazed and half in anguish, the same question looping in their heads." Only the broken can put themselves together. Because that's what we do. We break and bruise and put our pieces together. It makes us human, past the gray area. Post Mockingjay/Pre Epilogue
1. Everything Falls

**A/N : The Hunger Games and all its characters are property of Suzanne Collins.**

Life has ceased to mean much to me.

Sometimes I wonder what's worse, being blown to bits in that explosion or being like this. I don't even have a name for it.

It's a gray area. It's the area of the survivors, who float half dazed and half in anguish, the same question looping in their heads.

Why not me?

I want to end this. There are times I cave and run my fingers along the gleaming edge of the knife. So easy, I won't even feel a thing. Being me, this is the first thing that comes to mind. To run, to hide, to be the goddamned coward I've always been.

Then I try to redeem myself. At least in this pathetic wasteland, I ought to suffer it out. I will force myself through just to be the living dead, so I can die thinking I've made peace, I have my atonement.

Greasy Sae fixes my breakfast wordlessly. She's figured out I'm not much for talk some time before. Or maybe I look so repulsive it's disgusting to talk to me. I can't remember the last time I've had a shower; doesn't really bother me either.

After I shovel the scrambled eggs in, registering as much taste as I would for cardboard, I sit and stare.

And stare.

I spend hours like this. The letters pile up, the phone rings about five times a day. No wonder Haymitch tore his one off the wall, it drills inside my already empty skull. I don't need to deal with anymore pain than I'd settled for.

Days,months pass. I sit and stare.

I snap,though. I eventually do, out of instinct or out of the (selfishselfishselfish) need to do something or go insane.

(If I go insane, I can't atone. Makes sense.)

I change into my hunting clothes and walk out the door, and for a wretched few minutes I feel relieved as the tension flows out my coiled limbs. The morning is crisp and beautiful. My legs stride across the garden, the urgency surges like the adrenaline bursts I've wracked my body with for three years.

That's when I see him.

And for a moment, just for a moment, everything falls inside me.


	2. Roses

**A/N: I'll be twisting a bit of the last chapter in the spirit of making this move along a little faster ^^ **

"I dug these up for her."

All my drugged mind can think of when I see the soft petals mixed up with the mud in his wheelbarrow are terrible, hateful things. Things I know in some dark corner of my mind I should not say to this boy, not him. Maybe many people – me included – but not him.

So I stop myself. I look at them.

They're not roses. Not the mocking thing I kept in a glass of water up in my room. They're primroses.

_Primroses. _

My legs walk back on impulse. I race up to the house, fling open the doors to my room and grapple for the poison. I chuck it in the fire; grind the vase to powder beneath my heel. Barefooted, bleeding, I don't care. Maybe they're right; maybe I really am a lunatic.

"Katniss."

I stop. It's a miracle what that voice can do. The steady cadences, not very deep but in that eerie in between place that's calm, soothing. But really, what do I care? Where was he all this while? Holed up in some pretty little room being hailed as a hero, I bet. While I, the raving lunatic, I've made a profession as a Wallgazer. Katniss Everdeen, Professional Catatonic. The job doesn't pay very well, but we've all got our parts to play.

So I keep doing it until my foot is in tatters. I don't care if he's next to me, yanking my arms. What does he know about watching the one person you were certain you ever loved being blown to bits by the very movement you led? Nothing. Finally, he sets me down on the bed and goes to the washroom. I hear some shuffling. My head is hazy, disoriented. Raving.

He comes back with a first aid kit and a basin of water. Gently, he keeps my foot in the warm water. The stinging pain clears my head, and I wonder if I've screamed the mean, hateful things from before at him. Wouldn't be the first time I've been a violent nutcase and he lets it go. He works without talking while I watch rosy curls of blood twirl in the water. He treats my cuts from some brown liquid that smells foul and wraps my foot tightly in gauze. I sense, again, the steadiness he brings into everything. The rhythm. He sets the foot on the bedspread and tucks the sheets around me.

"Get your sleep," he smiles. "You look like you need it."

My nightmares show, then. I have no idea; I've hardly seen a mirror around for months. Maybe because I think I'll scare myself to death. Death is the only thing I take conscious steps to avoid.

He sits by the bed. He waits.

I wait.

For the first time in months, my sleep is dreamless.

* * *

I wake up to a harsh midday sun. It feels like an incessant warm pounding on my eyes. The damned window is open.

As I reach across to shut it out, I catch myself. There's only one person who'd leave a window open in the worst weather. Well, he's not here in any case. He shouldn't be here. I'm sick to death of owing people. He should just let me do my shriveling in peace. I look at my foot, twist it around. The pain isn't as bad. I set it on the floor and balance my weight on it. I collapse. Bed bound for a week or so, perfect.

I try to reach for the window again. Nope.

So I lie down and wait. I feel dirty, I feel the rose all over me. I glance at the fire, scared that it's still there, that Snow has made this freakish flower that regenerates to keep taunting me. The flames flicker, licking the walls of the fireplace. Fire beats roses. It's oppressively warm here, but I won't let Greasy Sae put out the fire. She's offered on occasion, but I feel safer when it's around. I was beyond caring about heat anyway.

I realize I've been lapsing into the catatonia when he sits on my bed and I give a little yelp. He laughs. His laugh was always full and bright, better than my sardonic chuckling.

"Give me some warning," I mumble.

"Next time I will." He examines my foot. "You won't be moving around much."

I narrowed my eyes. "Just my luck. I wanted to go hunting today."

After a moment of silence, he says, "I planted the primroses around the garden."

I can feel the lump rising in my throat and I swallow it down. I don't have it in me to cry yet. "Thank you," I choke.

"Is there anything you need?"

_Stop being nice to me. I don't deserve it and I don't want to owe you anymore. _

"A shower." I want to scrub the poison raw. I can't live with it anymore.

He helps me stand and supports my back while I limp to the washroom. While I stand against the tiles, he shuffles in my wardrobe and brings a few clothes, a towel and a hairbrush. I hop to the shower after he leaves and undress. I turn on the shower and start scrubbing frantically, rubbing my skin raw. I wash my hair, my mouth, everything, until I'm pink and tender. _Like fresh meat. _I towel off, careful not to set my foot on the floor, and manage to put on the baggy white shift.

"Shall I come in?"

He's been standing by all this time. I bite my lip. I can't make it out on the slippery floor; I'd break a limb too. "Okay."

He opens the door slowly, peeks in, and the relief that I'm not half nude washes over his face. Bracing my back, he helps me limp to my bed, sets me down and leaves. When I look at the cabinet, there's a platter of bread made with raisins and nuts, the same bread he tossed to me a lifetime ago. This time, there's a generous slathering of butter and jam. Next to it, there's a vase, a short-necked glass tube. Floating in it is a single primrose.

I cave.

I cry.


End file.
